Time To Heal
by BuryTheHatchet
Summary: Tony looks after Ziva after she has been held hostage for two days. Set between season 3 and 4, whilst Gibbs is in Mexico, for the simple reason that I like wondering what happened during that time period. It does not really fit into any category or genre.
**Another short little one-shot, because I was really fed up of revising.**

Time To Heal

"Thank you for driving me home, Tony, but it was not necessary." Ziva said as she unlocked her apartment.

"You have two broken fingers, a sprained wrist and possible concussion. Doc said if you were going home you had to have someone to keep an eye on you. Gibbs said that someone is me."

"I am fine. I do not need a babysitter." She glared at him as he placed her bag by the door and sat on her sofa.

"Okay, I'll just sit and not keep an eye on you then." He shrugged and stretched out on the couch, his head on one armrest and his feet crossed on the other.

"Well, I am going for a shower." She turned and walked away from him.

"You need any help with that?" He called after her and she could hear the grin in his voice, even as she ignored him. She closed the bathroom door and stripped off her dusty, dirt-caked t-shirt and cargo pants, revealing bandages and dressings crisscrossing her body. Her eyes caught sight of her reflection in the mirror and she hissed in pain as she unwound the bandages from around her torso. The purple and black splodges that encased her ribcage looked worse than they had in the hospital when the doctor had checked her injuries. She had made the doctor promise not to disclose the full extent of her injuries to the rest of the team, only what was visible. Using her teeth she removed the bandage from around her swollen right wrist. The doctor had told her to waterproof her left hand to avoid getting the splints on her middle and ring fingers wet, so she reached up to the medical cabinet, gasping quietly as the movement pulled on the lacerations across her abdomen and the bruises that covered her chest and back. She gripped a bottle of paracetamol and took two tablets, swallowing them dry and placing the bottle on the edge of the sink. She then reached back up and pulled a box of latex gloves down, groaning and throwing it away when she realised it was empty. There were gloves in her bag, there always were, but Tony was sat in between her and her bag. She, carefully so as to avoid causing any more pain, wrapped a towel around herself and held it up with her thumb and forefinger of her left hand, the one with the two fractured fingers. "Tony?" She called, her voice not sounding as strong as she would have liked.

"Ziva?" He sounded worried. "You okay? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, I am fine. Are you able to get a glove from my bag please?" She heard his moving about and then a knock on the door.

"You decent?"

"Yes."

"I was hoping for a different answer." He sighed, walking in and wrinkling his nose at the towel. He handed over the glove and frowned as she struggled to put it on. "You need help?" His voice took on a gentle, caring tone.

"No, I am fine." She said stubbornly, moments before the towel slipped from her grasp and pooled on the floor by her feet. She cursed fluently in what he guessed was a mix of Hebrew, Russian and French.

"Christ, Ziva!" Tony was staring at the dark blotches and waterproof dressings. "What did he do to you?"

"It is nothing. I have had much worse." She stood, frozen, as he walked over to her and inspected the markings on her skin.

"He had you for two days. I could have stopped him from taking you. I should have stopped him from taking you." A thought dawned upon him and his eyes filled with a fiery fury. "What else did he do to you, Ziva?" His asked firmly.

"Nothing. Just what you can see." She smiled at him, not a full smile, or even a remotely happy smile, but a smile that told him she was telling the truth. "I promise. Besides, he is dead, he cannot harm me any more."

"He got off lightly. I should have made him suffer for what he did to you."

"He cannot hurt anybody else though." She walked over to him and placed a soothing hand on his tensed bicep. "But thank you, Tony, for caring."

"Have your shower and then I will bind your wounds for you."

"You do not have to."

"I do, Ziva. It's my fault." He took one last look at her, stood in her underwear, looking beaten and broken and yet still having a strong expression of determination and bravery carved into her features. "Just call if you need anything."

* * *

"You know, I don't think I've met anyone else who keeps a fully stocked first aid kit in each room of their home." Tony said, his back to her as she walked out of the bathroom. "Where do you want me to…?" He held the bandages and the bruise cream up.

"The bedroom would be the most comfortable for me." She smiled.

"Asking me into your bedroom, Officer David? I don't think that's appropriate, what with me being your superior and all." He teased.

"It would never have bothered you before." She smirked, leading the way. She dropped the towel and sat on the end of the bed in just her underwear again and Tony bit his lip because, despite the injuries, she was still one of if not _the_ most attractive woman he had ever met. He sat behind her, one leg either side of her yet not touching her, and arranged the first aid box next to him. He started rubbing cream onto the discoloured skin with a feather-light touch and noticed her flinch, almost imperceptibly.

"Is this hurting."

"No." Her voice was taut and strangled.

"It is. I'll be more careful."

"Tony, it is fine."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Considering it hurts to breathe, I do not think that you doing that or not doing that will be of much consequence."

"It's okay to show the pain, you know. Nobody's going to judge you for it. I would be curled in a ball crying right now if I had your injuries."

"Well, you were not trained by Mossad, were you?"

"Fair point."

"I went through worse than this for my training." She grunted slightly as he rubbed cream along her collarbone, hitting the fracture.

"Sorry."

"It is fine." She shook her head. The way his hands gently massaged her tender wounds was, aside from the pain it was causing, actually rather calming and she shifted backwards and leaned into his warm body.

"Hey, you can't go to sleep." He peered over her shoulder so her could get a better view of what he was doing, for once not taking a peak at her breasts but focusing on the bruises. "Sit up." He eased her away from his body, instantly feeling colder. He bound her torso, ensuring to get the correct amount of pressure. He then moved on to her wrist, repeating the same exercise just as cautiously.

"This is surprisingly neat." She looked at his handiwork once he was finished.

"Not the first wounds I've bandaged." He smiled sadly and pressed his lips to the back of her hand. "A kiss better." He shook his head before she could question it. "I'll braid your hair, too."

"You know how to braid hair?" She snorted.

"I was in a fraternity. There were always girls who didn't handle their liquor so well, and once you've been to one party where you've woken up with a girl with vomit in her hair, you soon learn how to avoid that. Braids are the easiest way to keep long hair out of the way." He explained as his fingers worked quickly, nimbly tucking strands of hair into a neat French braid. "Et voila!" He secured it with a hairband and grinned. "Now, how are we going to keep you awake?"

"I am sure you have a few methods in mind." She turned to kneel in front of him, her bandage clad body frightfully close to his.

"Are you inviting me to carry out those methods?" He raised his eyebrows, his voice hushed as she locked her eyes onto his.

"Obliquely." Her breath brushed his cheek as she leaned forward, her front pressed against his. "Thank you for making me feel better, Tony." She whispered huskily, pecking him on the cheek and pulling back. She stood up and walked to her dresser, pulling out a baggy t-shirt and leggings. He watched as she winked at him and sauntered out of the room. "I am ordering pizza. Would you like some?"

 **This whole thing sort of stemmed from seeing my brother brush and braid his girlfriend's hair after she damaged her hand. It inspired this whole thing, just seeing those ten seconds of my brother. It was going to have a larger role in this story, but I did not like the way it fit.**

 **For my reference: 29** **th** **NCIS fic.**


End file.
